


Airport Coffee

by seazu



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-02
Updated: 2012-05-02
Packaged: 2017-11-04 17:28:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seazu/pseuds/seazu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucifer and War meet to discuss War's participation in his scheme. Pre-"Good God Ya'll".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Airport Coffee

Semiotics is an interesting aspect, not just of art, but of everyday life. You see an apple, you don't just think of fruit. No, you think of Newton, Eve, Steve Jobs, Perfume; you think of that hot apple pie your mother made when you were young; you think of your doctor, you think of your teacher; you think of Granny, you think of video games and My Little Pony. An apple is no longer just an apple, it's everything in one tiny, juicy ball. The same can be applied to most common objects. The very words you see here, they don't truly exist, they're patterns of lines and curves that have been embedded with meanings, meanings that can be shifted simply with tone of voice. Time is relative, places exist, but the names we give them don't – the imaginary lines we put in place don't divide a country, not just because we've drawn them on a map.

Chien, Hund, Madra, Anjing – they all mean Dog. But a dog isn't just a dog anymore. It's a guardian, it's protection, it's a friend, it's music, it's hunting, it's a danger, it's loyalty. But it's just a word. Lines and curves. A noise.

A man is sitting by himself in a diner – and no, this isn't the beginning to some drawn-out joke. These are the thoughts which are running through his mind, as he watches the other patrons of this same diner. He watches them squirm through the monotony of their everyday lives, watches the Neanderthal ways in which they communicate. And he pities them. The people in this diner, they aren't meant for greatness. The man believes that deep down, every last one of them knows that. This isn't the kind of place you walk into and find yourself seated across from future Magritte's and Golding's. No, this was the kind of dead-end joint in which you find the working-class people who fuelled a failing society. He watched them, with their dead eyes, their balding spots and worn-out clothes. Plates stacked with food he wouldn't give his dog. If he had a dog.

This man didn't belong here, among these people. He stuck out so blatantly with his fine suit, his shoes polished to perfection, not a hair out of place and not a spec of dirt on his jacket. On the table before him, he was making careful notes in one of his many pocketbooks. Rows and rows of small, neat handwriting indented every page, front and back, making the paper thin and frail. But he sat straight-backed the entire time, not even tempted to curve over the book. Even in this grease-slicked diner, he remained poised and dignified, a far-cry from the man he once was. His only movements: the flicking of his wrist as his hand moved across the page, and the occasional flit of his pale blue eyes as he stopped to think and instead focused on the people scattered around him.

He didn't care for these people, he didn't care for this place. He could have his way, tear it apart with only the slightest of actions, but he remained composed if only for the benefit of the guest he was awaiting; the choice of location for their rendezvous being  _his,_ andnot the man's. Of course  _he_ was late. He was always late. In all of the years he had known him, he had known this man to be late. That little factoid was buried somewhere in his anal scribblings. Nevertheless, the man would wait, he was always worth waiting for – though he wasn't sure if he had much of a choice in the matter anymore.

A waitress, one of two working here on the late shift - a middle-aged woman who was fooling herself into thinking she could hide the fragility of her hair by dying it that awful platinum blonde, or disguise her age with make-up that would only seem fitting on a prostitute – approached him, carrying a mug and a coffee pot. Ah yes, the coffee he had ordered when he got here. Magnificent service as expected!

Had he said that aloud? The woman was giving him a sour look as she slammed the mug down and proceeded to pour the hot sludge. Semiotics. They'd popped back into his mind before she sauntered away, mumbling something bitter under her breath, about him no doubt. As the warm steam rose around him, allowing him to inhale the scent, he wasn't thinking of early mornings or late nights, he wasn't thinking of the pretentious coffee-shops that housed self-obsessed would-be writers of the next big thing, he wasn't even considering the third-world countries being taken advantage of by "the man". He was thinking about airports. The smell of this cheap, imitation of actual coffee always reminded him of airports. The hours he had wasted there drinking that piss, making small-talk with the person next to him, getting frustrated with delays and too-happy flight attendants.

So wrapped up in that thought, he almost didn't notice that his company had arrived. Only the tinkle of the bell above the door alerted him to the blonde man walking in, taking long strides with slightly bent knees that made him think of some Southern gentleman. The blonde took the seat opposite him, with that bone-tingling screech of the chair scratching the floor as it was scraped back. Now,  _he_ looked like he belonged here.

One man dressed-up, one man dressed-down – stop me if you've heard this one.

The blonde had put very little effort into his choice of attire, that much was evident to the man. He was draped in a t-shirt/button-down combo with workman boots and old jeans. Sitting with the man, it looked like a job-interview gone horribly wrong. Now, it may seem vain or shallow for the man to be so obsessed with appearances, but in his line of work it was critical. Things weren't like they used to be, if he didn't take care of his appearance it would draw all of the wrong attention. He didn't want that. So he made sure his shirt and tie didn't clash, he made sure his buttons were done up and his pants were pressed, and he made sure he was clean-shaven and his hair was kept well.

The blonde didn't seem quite so concerned with trivial matters like that, his hair was ruffled and untidy, jutting out at odd angles; his hollow cheeks were coated with rough stubble; his clothes were wrinkled and his boots were scuffed. But realistically, his appearance didn't matter. Not like the man's.

"You're late," the man said, by means of a greeting, but it wasn't bitter, he stated it matter-of-factly.

The blonde smiled, "I thought you would have known that about me by now," he replied, leaning an arm on the back of his chair and pulling one of his ankles to rest across his other leg.

"I do."

"And yet you didn't account for that when you came here."

"I didn't."

"So really, it's your own fault."

"Perhaps."

There was silence for a moment as the two regarded eachother. Same intense blue stare passed back and forth as if between the silence some other conversation was happening. Nothing was said for quite a long time, maybe daring eachother to speak first, but both refused to concede. The gap was filled in by the low hum of the flickering lights overhead and the mumble of conversation accompanied by obligatory clinks of cutlery on plates and glasses. Finally the man leaned forward slightly, clasping his hands over the book in front of him, his eyes never leaving the blonde's for a moment.

"I assume you asked me here for a reason," he said, "not that staring at you isn't wonderful."

The blonde's smile grew marginally, and he still didn't speak, perhaps celebrating his small victory. Finally the smile faded and he shifted his position ever so slightly before he said, "that's right, I have something to discuss, I would call it a proposition to spare you the feeling of being ordered – but we both know you hold no longer authority here."

The man tensed and untensed his jaw, regarding the blonde with a steely gaze. He was right, as much as he hated to admit it, he had no power over him. Whatever he was asked to do, he would have to do it, and there was no way around it.

The blonde took his lack of disagreement as his cue to continue, "it's your time to act – you'll draw them in. Pick them apart and send them on their separate paths, ready for me."

"The brothers?"

"Yes, the brothers."

"How can they be so oblivious to their fate?" he asked after a moment, leaning back and curling a hand around his coffee-mug.

"They'll find out in due time," he replied, watching the man though half-lidded eyes. A face of perpetual boredom.

"And my fate?" he asked, allowing a fraction of interest to leak through his mask.

The blonde shrugged, "they can't kill you."

"But…"

"But that doesn't mean you won't come out of this unharmed."

The man laughed, a crackling laugh like thunder, bitter with disbelief, "they're just men. Two men. You really expect they'll overpower me?"

"Don't underestimate them," the blonde scolded him, "they're stronger than they seem, smarter too."

The man's head rolled to one side, his thin lips pulling into a half-smile laced with allusion, "aren't you a little biased?"

"Perhaps," he allowed, spreading his palms towards the ceiling in a movement that indicated grace one wouldn't assume this man of possessing, "doesn't change anything."

The man took a sip of the coffee, barely even noticing his own action until the putrid liquid scorned his taste-buds. It was dark outside, meaning the diner was illuminated only by harsh overhead lights that stripped the world of its saturated colours – or perhaps exposed the glumness of reality. A woman across the room was gesticulating wildly, and from this distance he couldn't be sure if she was angry or just enthusiastic about whatever she was discussing with her partner. Maybe both, maybe she hated him, wanted nothing more than to leave him and abandon their relationship. When the conversation died down in the wave rhythm it seemed to follow, the tricklings of music could be heard from an ancient radio that sat behind the sticky counter. The waitresses circled the room like zombies, dragging their limbs unwillingly as they served food and refilled drinks, almost to the point where the man was convinced they would soon become a modern tableau of a classic work of Dalí.

"When?" he asked, eyes not moving from the people he was watching over the blonde's shoulder, but the other's gaze never left his face.

"Very soon," he said, "you have time to find a suitable location. You have the boy, and any other of my resources at your disposal."

Very little about the blonde would make you think he was at all well-connected. From the way he dressed to the undignified way he was sitting right then. However there was an air of power that seeped from him. A calm control in his tone that would bring silence to a room if he so wished. He could bend people's wills with such little effort, as was his crowning glory.

"I'll get to work immediately," he assured him, his eyes following a younger waitress as she rotated around the tables, with slightly more vigour than the other woman. He decided that since this one was significantly better looking than the older waitress, she must get better tips. Which would explain the, what one might call 'effort', that the older waitress put into her appearance.

The blonde nodded, seeming almost concerned that the man wasn't taking him seriously, "just trust me when I tell you not to underestimate them," he warned him again.

"No offence," he said, his eye's finally shifting back to meet his steady gaze, "but I can handle a couple of boys."

"No doubt you can," the blonde agreed, starting to unravel himself from his complicated position before making his way back towards the door. He paused when he had pulled it open and turned back to the man with a wink, "but don't get too cocky, War."


End file.
